


first sight, first light

by bourgeoiscat (orphan_account)



Series: from death, springs life [1]
Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Hades/Persephone - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2250159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/bourgeoiscat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The child of harvest does not belong in a war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	first sight, first light

**Author's Note:**

> My first time writing for the fandom, so comments will be lovely. Thank you! :)

The first time they meet, it is in a war. 

Combeferre, of course, blends in seamlessly. His is a familiar face on the battlefield, and the men are not surprised when he comes to collect their souls; there is often relief in their eyes, and it eases his mind to know that for some, he is not always such a foreboding, ominous figure, but one that may offer quietude and escape. 

But Courfeyrac is a different matter entirely. The child of harvest does not belong in a war; he is _life_ incarnate, the embodiment of all things living and beautiful, and there is disbelief in the men's eyes as he blazes past them in fury, his radiance almost blinding. 

Combeferre does not understand his purpose here. There is only death, and that is _his_ domain. 

But as he watches him dart amongst the warriors, comprehension dawns. Underneath Courfeyrac's fury is grief and desperation, and Combeferre pities his attempts to will life into the bodies of men whose breaths are already leaving their slacken mouths. It is futile to try - the Fates have already decided after all, and Combeferre has laid his claim to their souls. 

Yet, Courfeyrac does not give up, not even after the war has long ended, and Combeferre cannot help but linger, even after his duty is done, to watch as he breathes life into soil ridden by death and destruction. 

Daffodils bloom in his wake, their yellow petals unfurling and reaching for the sun, and Combeferre lets himself run his fingertips over their velvet-soft rims, watching mesmerised as they spread and blossom across the earth. Their presence is something he is not used to, for battlefields are often left drenched in blood and sin. These flowers do not weigh him down so heavily. 

"You can take one if you want." 

These words startle him. He looks up into green eyes, and is taken aback by the intensity of their gaze. There is kindness in them, curiosity, and such glances have never been afforded to him before. 

When he doesn't say anything, Courfeyrac continues, "They won't die. I'll make sure they won't." 

He uncurls his fingers, and in the middle of his palm, a purple iris blooms. Combeferre takes it, and cradles it in his hand. He looks at Courfeyrac hesitantly, "Thank you." 

They do not say more to each other that day. But Combeferre takes the iris with him, places it by his bedside, and if he dreams of green eyes framed by dark lashes, red-bitten lips and sun-bronzed skin - 

\- he does not say.


End file.
